Authors: Jen Black
The lady of Aydon watched them go and let out a vast, gusty sigh. Her shoulders slumped. “Alina, Alina…what if your father fails to come home? What then? He should not go when Reynold is so like to die.”
In normal times, Uncle Reynold, as lord of the manor of Aydon, would have led the men after the raiders. But since he was confined to his bed in the downstairs hall, Father, in charge of everything while his brother lay dying, must follow the reivers’ trail.
“Father wants to go, Mama.” Struggling to keep impatience out of her voice, she added, “So does Lionel, and so do the lads. They love the chance to tear off on a Trod, you know that.”
The unwritten laws of the Hot Trod decreed a man might follow the reivers with hound and horn in order to recover stolen goods. Neighbourhood men between the ages of sixteen and sixty had a duty to aid and attend the victim by chasing the raiders. Should a man refuse, he would be lucky if he wasn’t thought to be in league with the enemy and made a fugitive at the horn himself.
If some of the Aydon tenants and farmhands weren’t exactly eager, they knew their duty. Once they noticed the absence of cattle in the byres and yards after daybreak, they sighed or grinned according to their nature, and headed to Aydon Hall knowing what was expected of them. Now they rode out on borrowed horses to chase the thieves, and it didn’t really matter if the miscreants proved to be Scots or English. The reivers of upper Tynedale were every bit as vicious as the thugs of Liddesdale, and stole from the English as often as they stole from the Scots.
“Our boys are but farmhands and stable lads,” her mother complained, clutching the heavy cross at her throat. “How can they be successful against lawless men who live by shifting and thievery?”
An image of Matho Spirston crossed Alina’s mind. With his dark red hair and temper to match, he was prepared to jostle her brother Lionel for second place behind her father. He would likely hold his own with any of the thugs that roamed the border. So could Gilbert
Reynoldson
and Robert Cooper. If men like John Wilson and Geordie Pike were less forthright and hardy, they were still keen to ride out with the others.
“They must get the livestock back, for that is our sustenance through the winter. Do not worry, Mama. Father will soon catch and deal with the thieves and he will be home before we have time to miss him.”
Her mother sighed.
Alina walked slowly along the wall-walk. “I often wonder which fool built access to the allure through the kitchen, don’t you, Mama?” She spoke lightly, hoping to distract her mother from the dismal prospect of an injured husband. “But I suppose the watch-guards like it because they can creep in and get warm by the fire when they come off duty on a cold night.”
Alina shuffled sideways, eased her farthingale through the narrow door and jumped the few steps down into the kitchen. “I should go to the Horse-field,” she added, “and make sure they did not take Dragon.”
Her mother sniffed. Her hoops were wider and had to be carefully teased between the narrow stone door jambs. “You care more for that old mare than you do me.”
Alina paused to offer assistance, and bit back a bright remark. Her mother had good reason to worry, for not every man came back unscathed from a Hot Trod. Some didn’t return at all. “Nay, Mama you know that is not true. I do not think they will have taken her, for she is too old, but I must be sure.”
Alina put a comforting arm around her mother’s thin shoulders. Normal good sense would return, she knew, as soon as her mother got over watching her man ride out to do battle. “I shall go straight to the field and back.” She ducked her head to check her mother’s expression. “You shall not truly mind, I think?”
Mistress Carnaby did not smile, but she waved a hand in a gesture Alina took as agreement.
Alina headed for the main stairs and crossed the courtyard. Lance and Cuddy stood at the gate in the curtain wall, staring after the troop of men and horses. A plume of dust hung in the sky to show where sixteen horses and riders had ridden the mile towards her grandfather’s home beside the square stone tower of Halton.
Fourteen farmhands, full of excitement, bearing weapons pulled out of the armoury that morning. Grandfather’s more seasoned campaigners would swell the ranks once they reached Halton. A band thirty strong would soon set out after the raiders.
Lance demanded to know where she was going and pulled a face when she told him. Both boys shrugged and stayed where they were, kicking their toes in the dust. No doubt they wished they were old enough to ride out with Father and Lionel.
Hurrying through the Stack-garth and the heavy dew of the Night-fold she intoned a swift, fragmented prayer for Harry Scott’s safety, and then chided herself. He was naught but a passing stranger. But strangers were a rarity in Corbridge where the whole district seemed related by marriage or blood ties, and bloodlines could be traced back four generations or more.
At the hurdle gate she hesitated. An icy hand touched her heart when she saw no calm brown mare among the buttercups of the Horse-field. Sliding between the wall and the hurdle, she sent up a swift prayer as she hurried down the grassy slope. She scanned the alders and birches that bordered the burn trickling through the meadows towards the deeper ravine that held Aydon Hall in the crook of its arm.
Her horse stood half-asleep in the shade of an ancient oak.
“Dragon!”
Alina pressed her cheek against the horse’s warm neck. “Dear old Dragon.”
A soft whicker reached her, and for a moment Alina took no notice. Then she realised the sound had not come from Dragon, and lifted her head. At the stream’s edge, half-hidden in the dappled shade provided by the old oak tree stood a tall, handsome chestnut, saddled and bridled, but minus a rider.
Her fingers tight on Dragon’s mane, Alina scanned the mass of trees along the edge of the ravine and the banks of the Halton burn. What if the raiders remained nearby? They might plan to attack again, now the Aydon men had ridden away.
The horse whickered again. It was a gentleman’s horse or perhaps a good quality animal used by officials and messengers. The saddle, shiny with use, had a rolled pack tied behind.
The horse nosed something in the grass.
Something that looked suspiciously like a body.
She stood on tiptoe and peered over Dragon’s warm back. Whoever lay there did not move.
The chestnut allowed her to approach, blew over her knuckles and then swung its head round and down to nuzzle at the body sprawled face-down close beneath its hooves.
No blood, nor a wound of any kind. One gauntleted hand lay close to the side of his head, fingers relaxed, but the other stretched out as if pointing to something. His legs, clad in plain hose and knee-high riding boots, seemed straight and undamaged.
His horse moved off to join Dragon.
She ought to go and rouse the servants, and have the rider thrown into the dungeon, but all the fit men rode with her father and of the male servants, only Auld John remained at home. She rose, stepped over the stranger and glanced at his profile. Her heart thudded an extra, heavy beat, and she took a hasty step to catch her balance.
The man who had chased through her dreams half the night now
lay
at her feet.
She crouched at his side, warmth blooming in her skin. A dark, spreading bruise marring his forehead. Dark stubble thrust through his skin and thick black lashes shadowed his sun-browned cheek. Black hair fell over his brow, and his broad cloth cap clung precariously to the crown of his head.
A brooch winked and gleamed at the brow band.
She removed the cap and studied it. He would not want to lose the jewel.
Vetches and mosses tickled his nostrils. The vigour and energy, so much a part of Harry in Corbridge’s crowded market place, was absent. Her hand hovered over his face and then hesitated.
What was he doing here?
He lay underneath one of the old oak’s thick, low branches. Both sword and dagger were sheathed at his waist, so there had been no struggle. There was no flattened grass, no strange hoof prints in the mud of the stream and his horse, now cropping grass beside Dragon, showed no signs of a long chase.
“Well, the reivers would have stolen his weapons and this jewel if they’d found him,” she murmured, eyeing the blue stone in his cap with a critical eye. It was not a sapphire of the first order, for there was a flaw through the centre of the stone but raiders would not have noticed in the darkness. She looked up at the thick, gnarled branch that swooped towards the ground.
“I suppose, then, he rode into the branch and knocked himself off his horse.
Silly creature.”
It was hard to believe such a simple thing might have felled him. Still, horses were nervous creatures. If a rabbit ran under the mare’s nose in the dark, in strange territory, it was possible she jinked aside and dislodged her rider.
The young man wore the serviceable doublet she remembered from yesterday with a leather jack, which looked new, over the top. Her brother Lionel owned one like it. The leather would be stuffed with wool and likely have horn plates stitched inside for protection. Her eyes widened on the lace attached to the edge of his collar. A thread of silver wound through the silk of his shirt cords, and silver aiglets tipped the ends. His doublet and breeches were of good heavy woollen cloth, though plain and not new, for the sleeve was worn at the cuff. Beneath the dust and mud his boots, too, were of well-worn brown leather.
Her father and brothers wore clothes like this when they worked around the estate, saving their expensive velvets for more formal occasions. She looked at the young man’s peaceful face. This was no farm boy, but
a gentleman come
to grief.
She ran her palm over his back and disturbed the gauzy layer of moisture on the surface of the leather jack.
Had Father found him, he would have assumed Harry was part of last night’s raid and would have spiked him through without a qualm.
“Are you come to kill me, or help me?”
At the sound of the croaky, laboured voice, she dropped his cap and jerked backwards. Her heart loosed a single mighty thump against her chest wall. Poised to rise and flee, she hesitated when the man made no effort to move. She frowned. He hadn’t sounded like Harry at all. His eyes were open, but only as mere slits. Careful to stay out of reach of his arm, she bent low to peer into his face.
She prodded his shoulder. “Harry?”
His eyes had closed again.
“Sir?
Sir?”
His lids lifted, but only half-way. “Yes?”
Alina shuffled to one side, so he did not have to adjust his line of vision to see her. “What are you doing here?”
His lids closed once more. “My head…hurts.”
“You have a swelling. There.”
“
Ahhhhhh
!”
She whipped her finger back from his brow. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause pain.”
One of his eyes opened to the merest slit and regarded her with displeasure. “My horse has a gentler touch than you, madam.”
“Well!” Affronted, Alina could think of nothing to say.
“No,” he said. “Since you ask, I am not well.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Then you should have done.” He closed his eyes again.
Alina stared at him. His name was Harry Scott, and because of that, hurt or not, her father would kill him. But Harry had saved her from the bull, so she owed him something. She couldn’t walk away and leave him.
Yesterday the intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter.
Today he behaved as if she were a stranger.
Birdsong flooded from the branches above. Dragon dozed in the sunshine. The stranger’s horse moved a pace or two out into the meadow and continued to graze. Could she keep him hidden? Father might return at any moment. She turned back to the prone figure.
“Can you walk?”
His dark brows drew in towards his nose while he considered the matter. “I doubt it.”
“I can’t shift you on my own.”
“No need. Just let me
be
. Sleep…would be…good.” His voice slurred on the words and his eyes closed.
Alina leaned over and shook his arm. “You can’t sleep here. Someone will find you, and then it will be all over. There was a raid last night, and Father will think you were a part of it.” He took no notice, so she shook him again and raised her voice. “Do you want to die today?”
He groaned, and his hand lifted, fingers splayed, to stop her rough shaking. “Enough, I am awake.”
She sat back on her heels and surveyed him. “I hope you are not too heavy, Harry.”
His fingers clenched on the fabric of her skirt. “You know me?” His voice was sharper, demanding. “You know my name? Wait. Help me sit up.”
“Please.”
It was the kind of flippant reply she gave Lionel when he tried his new found authority on her. Lionel didn’t like it when she stood up to him, but she was the elder and had no intention of being brow beaten by her brother. Harry, however, was unmoved. He stared at the damp hem of her brown skirt as if fascinated by it.
“You are correct,” he said. “I am sorry. Would you please help me sit up? I shall do my best to assist.” Resigned amusement flavoured his apology.
Lionel never reacted like this. Alina made no move to help the man at her feet, but studied the lines of his face and remembered the oddness of his remark. “What do you mean when you ask if I know your name?”
“For God’s sake, woman!
Help me!”
“How do I know you won’t attack me?”
He groaned.
“By the Rood!
How will I manage to attack you when I can’t sit up? You could
fell
me with a hazel twig at the moment.” Frustrated resignation rang through his voice.
“Can you turn over? It will be easier if you are on your back.”
“I can but try.” His mouth lifted in a crooked smile.
She observed his careful sequence of movements with a critical eye. Each limb seemed sound, and when he rolled over and stared at the spreading canopy of green leaves above him, she could not help but gasp, for his eyes glowed like sapphires in the soft light beneath the tree. Her heart gave an odd little jerk.
“Where are you?”
“Here.” She moved closer, confident he would not hurt her. “Can’t you see me?”
“I can now you’ve moved.” His eyes flickered and squinted as he struggled to focus on her. “What lovely eyes you have. I hope they are kind eyes. If I move my head it makes me dizzy, so just now I prefer not to, if you don’t mind.”
“Then how am I to move you?”
“We seem to be in a meadow out of sight of any dwelling. If I stay here awhile, the dizziness will pass away.” His gaze settled on something behind her right shoulder.
“My horse?
Is that my horse?”
Alina glanced at the leggy chestnut. “Yes. Were you attacked?”
He frowned. “I have a vague memory of avoiding someone or something. Beyond that, I cannot remember much at all. Where are we?”
“We’re in Horse-field below Aydon Hall.”
“Aydon Hall?”
He squinted. “Who are you?”
A pang shot through her. Had he forgotten her already? “I told you yesterday,” she snapped. “I’m Alina Carnaby.” Piqued, she tried not to show it. “My father is Cuthbert Carnaby, and my uncle is Sir Reynold of Aydon Hall.”
“Yesterday?
We met yesterday? The name Aydon rings no bells with me. Where is the nearest township?”
“Corbridge.”
Alina frowned. She disliked the sharp tone of his voice. Was he lying? All her worries returned.
He raised a hand to his brow in a puzzled manner.
“Who are you?” she asked bluntly, watching his expression. It seemed a basic question, one he could not avoid answering.
He gave her a charming, rueful smile. “I wish I knew.”
Alina stared at him. Was he lying, or simply evading her? “Come, sir, this is no time to play games with me. You gave me your name yesterday.” She shifted to ease her knees.
The glance he slanted at her was a complicated mix of wry amusement and concern.
“Would that I could tell you, Alina.
I cannot remember anything beyond riding in the dark, though why I do not know.” His gaze travelled beyond her to the heavy branches of the old oak. “Though it is a venerable tree, I doubt it holds any answers.”
“I expect you clouted your head on it as you came up the slope,’ she snapped. ‘Surely you can remember your own name?”
He flinched as his fingers found the sore place on his brow. “Much as I hate to admit it, the tree seems to be the answer.” Without any hint of shiftiness or the crafty leers she was used to among the common men of the market place, he held her gaze for a long moment. “In good faith, I cannot tell you my name.”
The breeze moved over her skin, and she felt cold. What must it be like to not remember who you were? She sat back on her heels, using her hands to keep her farthingale down. “You told me your name was Harry Scott, and you were riding to Edinburgh,” she reminded him. “You were in Corbridge yesterday, and you saved me from the bull. Do you not remember any of it?”
His eyes widened. “I saved you from a bull? I’m sorry, but no. There’s nothing in my head but a headache. In a way, it’s an interesting experience…you must tell me the whole story sometime…”
“Why were you riding in the dark? What were you doing here? You can’t have business with my father? No one opens their gates after dark.”
The young man raised a hand to stop the flow of questions. “Good Lord,” he said weakly. “You go at a gallop, do you not?” He placed one gloved palm flat on the grass, and tried to push himself upright. She grasped his other arm and steadied him. With a huge effort he sat with knees wide and legs crossed at the ankle. He gripped his shins, shut his eyes and rolled his lips inwards.
“How do you feel?”
“Dizzy,” he said. “I should step back if I were you. I might spew.”
Alina scrambled to her feet. He might be handsome and make her heart beat faster, but she had no wish to be in the line of fire, so to speak. He did look a strange green colour. She stooped, picked up his cap, shoved it in her pocket and glanced over her shoulder. There was no one about. Her glance passed over the wooden shelter Dragon used in the winter.
She frowned, and then considered the old shack more carefully. Perhaps it would do. It was snug, built of old oak planks, tucked in beneath the high curtain wall. There was clean dry straw inside, for she had ordered one of Auld John’s lads to the task yesterday. Rats were all too easily attracted to old straw.
She glanced at the stranger, and back at the shelter. Perhaps it stood too close to the hall for his safety. Auld John might lean over the wall as he sometimes did when he wanted a breather from shovelling dung from the byre, or shifting the odorous piles that built up with monotonous regularity beneath the garderobes on this side of the hall.